I don’t fear ghosts. I’m not scared of demons. I don’t worry about haunted houses or secret burial grounds or the wrath of God.
I don’t fear giant spiders or big snakes or saying “I do believe in Bloody Mary” three times to a mirror in a darkened room.
I am not scared of the boogeyman or gremlins or alligators in the sewer.
I do not fear the Tarot or Ouija boards or witches riding their brooms during the reign of the blood soaked moon.
My fears are, for the most part, based in reality. I fear a lunatic killer taking Emily from me. I fear a random driver, sideswipe to the side, taking out someone close to me. I fear cancer and Alzheimer’s and a mysterious ailment that defies diagnosis. I fear alcoholism and a resurgence of those tobacco cravings that I a managed to bury so deep down inside.
Forget your ghosts. Piss off, werewolf. Take that vampire and throw him on a pyre. I’m not interested in your supernatural, bullshit, implausible fears. I’ve got job security and lower profits and the safety of my loved ones to fray at my nerves.
I write about them, describe them, do everything I can to make sure you picture them, but I don’t believe in them.